Any Rogue Will Do

by Bethany Bennett

  “So what you’re saying is that underneath the wild young buck in London, you had a lot of adjustments to make,” she said.

  The reminder sat heavy. His past actions would always be between them, no matter how close they became. “Aye. I didn’ always handle it well.”

  “About that. I have a question. It’s personal. And none of my business,” Lottie said.

  Ethan raised a brow, waiting. “I thought anything personal was open for conversation by now.”

  It didn’t take long for her to sigh and say, “Well, it’s like this. The brewery you’re building—aren’t you worried about it?”

  “Worried? Did you notice something on the worksite?” He’d thought everything was in order, and Mr. Macdonell had agreed. Had they missed something?

  Lottie looked uncomfortable but, being Lottie, continued anyway. “You avoid spirits. My coachman, Patrick, has a compulsion to drink alcohol as well. He conquers that need daily, as I assume you do, since I’ve never seen you have more than a single glass of ale or wine.”

  “I see.” Ethan studied the horizon, where the main house, with its ridiculous gargoyles, canted rooflines, and chaperones, awaited them. Lottie deserved honesty, even if she might judge him for his answer. “I don’ have compulsions or cravings for liquor like your coachman. But I learned the hard way that I don’ like who I become when I drink that much. An occasional ale or glass of wine is fine. Never more than one or two in a night. And no whisky. I haven’ been drunk in five years.”

  Her brow furrowed as she mulled over what he’d said. “If you don’t have Patrick’s issue with stopping, then why not enjoy one glass of whisky and leave it be, like you would ale or wine?”

  Because he was a coward. And now she’d know it, which couldn’t help him win her over. Rubbing a hand over the rough stubble of his jaw, Ethan tried to find the right words. “I’m scared, Lottie. I don’ trust myself. When I hurt you, I was drunk. When I injured Connor, I was drunk. I don’ want tae make more mistakes and hurt people.”

  She nodded but didn’t respond before they arrived at the house. A groom rushed to hold their reins, and Ethan took the opportunity to help Lottie dismount.

  “You just wanted an excuse to hold me for a minute, didn’t you?” she whispered from his arms.

  He winked. “Guilty as charged, my lady. I’d kiss you if we were alone.”

  “And if we were alone, I’d let you.” She stepped away, straightening her hat. “I’m going to meet with Cook and arrange a delivery to your new brewmaster. Mr. Macdonell might appreciate a basket from the kitchens as he settles in. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all, lass. Thank you for thinking of it.” He watched her go, shamelessly admiring the sway of her full hips as she climbed the steps to the door. She was all curves and competence, and he couldn’t look away.

  After dinner they relaxed in the library, as had become their custom. They were already settling into patterns and habits.

  All day he’d received compliments from masons and carpenters on his choice of bride. It had been bittersweet. His feelings had grown beyond what she offered in return, so he shied away from putting a name to them.

  Her fingers caressed the spines of the books on the far wall of the library. What she was looking for, he didn’t know, but the quiet was comfortable, so he didn’t ask.

  A glass of brandy warming in his palm would be nice. It wasn’t often he longed for alcohol, and this wasn’t really a craving per se. But if this were a painting, the lord of the manor would have a glass of brandy and a dog asleep at his feet while his lovely woman perused the bookshelves of their library, feeding her curious, nimble mind.

  He could imagine them like this. Being able to so clearly see a life with her should have scared him, considering their arrangement. They didn’t have a future—they had three weeks.

  It was a nice fantasy. “Have you found what you needed yet?” She’d moved out of his field of vision.

  “Almost.”

  Several minutes passed before she joined him with a book in hand. Instead of taking the chair beside him, she knelt at his feet with a wicked gleam in her eye.

  “What are you up tae, lass?”

  “Educating myself.” She winked. “I found a reference text,” Lottie said, holding up the book. He glanced at the title and gripped the arms of the chair tighter. So she’d found that section of the library after all. And now she knelt at his feet. God help him.

  “It says here that I…well. That doesn’t sound so difficult. Sounds rather fun actually.”

  She wasn’t talking to him, but he was intrigued to see where this was going. Given the title of the book in her hand and her position between his knees, Ethan’s body was already warming to the myriad ideas running through his head.

  When her fingers loosed the first button of his breeches, he muttered an expletive and she froze. “Is something the matter, Ethan?”

  He shook his head, praying she’d continue. In the open placket, his cock stood at half-mast to meet her. Watching Lottie wrap her lovely mouth around him starred in many fantasies, so breathing evenly was rather difficult. For her to instigate this left him at a loss for words—polite words, anyway. Giving the head of his erection a small kiss, she gently sucked the tip into her mouth, watching his face for a reaction, and the need for being polite disappeared. “Bloody fecking hell,” he whispered.

  Fully in the playful role of educating herself, she sat back on her heels, holding the book in one hand and perusing the page while the other stroked him to full hardness with a slow, torturous rhythm. The urge to lean his head back and enjoy overwhelmed him, but Ethan didn’t want to miss a moment of watching Lottie. Just her hand felt a thousand times better than his own, and Lord knew he’d spent enough time holding his dick lately.

  “I think I can take it from here.” Setting the book aside, she grinned saucily up at him. With a deliberate lick, she traced a line from the base to the plump head of his penis, stopping to suck his shaft along the way, sending ripples of pleasure vibrating down his legs. “Ethan, why do you smell like lemons?”

  Of course she’d notice that—Lottie missed nothing. He huffed out an embarrassed laugh, rubbing a palm over his face. “You talked about the bath oil in front of me with the lady innkeeper. I bought a bottle, and I, uh, use it when I take myself in hand. It reminds me of you.”

  She rested her cheek on his thigh, looking up at him through her lashes. One hand leisurely stroked him. “You’ve wanted me that long? Even when I hated you?”

  Sinking his fingers into her curls, like he’d imagined doing so many times, he caressed her cheekbones with his thumbs. “Aye, I always wanted you. Always.” The rough timbre of his voice might have been arousal, but he suspected a different emotion compelled his admission—one that would scare her away if he named it aloud. It scared him a bit, how completely she’d conquered his heart.

  She fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, running fingers over his stomach. “Confession time, I suppose. I watched you undress at the window the night of the musicale.”

  He grinned. “I know.”

  Laughing, she raised herself to her knees once more and pulled his head down for a kiss. Their flavors melded together, and he could have lost himself in her for the rest of the night if she hadn’t left his mouth to kiss his stomach. Working her way down, trailing fingers and lips, she explored his body until—finally—her mouth sank over his cock once more and he lost rational thought.

  This woman was a dream. Hot, wet, and playful, she never let her hands rest. Noises rose from his throat in time with his hips as he met her in a cadence set by squeezing strokes of her fingers and sliding suction between her lips.

  His grip on her hair tightened, not enough to pull, but acting as a tether to tie him to her lest he fly away under her wicked mouth. And he would come apart soon. Her fingernails grazed his tight sack, and that was it. “Lottie, love, I’m close,” he managed to gasp before his eyes rolled back in his head and pleasur
e sang through his blood, stealing his breath.

  Lottie gave his cock one last pull with her mouth, then finished with her hands, gentling her grip as he came down from the climax. When he finally opened his eyes, she looked awfully pleased with herself.

  “See? I told you I was an eager student.”

  He laughed, letting his head fall back. “I do love a woman who reads.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  There goes your faux fiancé,” Agatha commented from the window.

  Lottie’s hungry gaze followed his broad silhouette as he guided a cart and horse down the lane. After these last few days, the sight of him impacted her senses. She knew the feel of his skin, tanned from working outside, the salty taste, the smell of him. There were firm lines he insisted they not cross, but her fingers twitched, wanting more time exploring the smooth warmth of muscle and bone of those impressive shoulders.

  This insistent craving for Ethan made her suspect she might be in over her head. Yesterday afternoon she’d visited the library for a book and ended up spread over Ethan’s desk with his mouth between her legs. A flash of heat accompanied the memory, making her clench her thighs together.

  A day apart would do her good. Time away to remind herself of her list, her plan, and the insurmountable hurdle of Father’s hatred for the man who’d brought her to orgasm atop his account books. Twice.

  “He’s calling on a tenant. The Thatchers. The midwife sent word this morning. Their babe was born late last night. A healthy little girl.” Lottie couldn’t help a smile. Who wouldn’t be happy about a healthy delivery, after all? “Cook and I assembled a basket for the family, and Ethan helped me sort through the blanket cupboard after breakfast. He’s distributing warmer linens to the Thatchers and a few other families. The local farmers are claiming it will be a brutally cold winter.”

  Agatha cocked her head. “You seem to know everything that is going on around here. Is he winning you over? You could do far worse for a husband than Lord Amesbury.”

  Lottie set her book down, then picked it up again in an effort to not watch Ethan’s back as he disappeared down the lane. “He is nothing like the man I envisioned marrying.” It felt disloyal to say such a thing, given their new intimacy.

  Agatha’s short laugh ended on a delicate snort. “They never are, dear. I suppose you mean he is not incompetent, easily cowed by you, or able to be managed, as you manage everything else in your life.”

  “Auntie!”

  “Oh, pish. I am old, not blind or senile,” Agatha said, rolling her eyes. “A woman of your brains deserves an equal, not whatever it is you seem determined to settle for.”

  It sounded so cowardly when her godmother said it that way.

  Since the night of Ethan’s haircut, Lottie’s perspective on intimacy had undergone a change. Desire had been theoretical for so long, yet now it waited beneath the surface, always ready, when Ethan was near. With each encounter they shared, the passionless years loomed empty and cold—and guaranteed if she ended things in a few weeks. As she did whenever the thought crossed her mind, she shoved it aside and tried to focus on the here and now.

  Lottie set the book down again and craned her neck for one last peek at Ethan before he disappeared around the curve and trees hid him from view. Seeing him, touching him had become a source of comfort. Like a talisman she didn’t want to need.

  This was supposed to be only physical. But now she had a constant craving for the little things. Mundane things. Like reading together in the evening and riding the estate during the day.

  Like it or not, she had a clearly outlined future. Even if she were to throw away her entire plan and discard the list into the wind like some heroine in a romantic novel, she still had Father to contend with.

  “Lord Amesbury could be a good partner for you,” Agatha said.

  Partner. Lottie wrinkled her nose. What an unwelcome word. She’d have her own property soon, and she wouldn’t have to share it with anyone. The plan ensured that.

  Ignoring the lack of response, Agatha continued her one-sided conversation. “For someone of your disposition, learning how to be a partner in return could be a lifelong endeavor. You may have noticed you’re a managing sort.” Lottie shot her a look and pointedly picked up the book again and pretended to read. “He doesn’t seem to mind, though. You could have something real with Amesbury. What your mother and father shared, and what I had with Alfred. That is what your mother wanted for you, after all.”

  The warmth seeped out of Lottie, leaving her with a cold knot of anger and frustration in her chest. There wasn’t an easy answer to her problem—she should know, because her brain had dwelled on little else for days—and Agatha pointing out Ethan’s bloody perfection didn’t help the situation. Slamming the book closed with a thump, she snapped, “I know what Mother wanted. A dutiful daughter as refined as she was. But as I’m learning, we can’t always get everything we want, can we?” Tears threatened, but she beat them back with her anger. “She and Father may have shared something special, but they didn’t include their children in that happiness. And with her gone, Father has no love left for anything except his books—even his grieving daughter.” Every thud of her heart echoed in her ears, but the tears stayed put.

  Agatha sighed. “You need never be alone again, child. Even if you choose not to marry, you will always have a place with me. Your father loved your mother with the last fiber of his being, but I can see that his attention to you has not been as constant as it should have been. I will not push. I will not pry.” When Lottie snorted, Agatha conceded, “Fine, I shall try not to push or pry more than I already have. I will say this—even if you never grow to love Lord Amesbury, you could do far worse than a viscount for a husband.”

  There was no way to answer that.

  The autumnal colors dressing the trees outside shadowed the path down which Ethan had ridden. She would have agreed to coo and cuddle the Thatchers’ new baby, except the thought of Ethan’s large hands holding an infant had turned her insides to goo, and she had panicked. Lied. Claimed Agatha needed her for something. It was a matter of self-defense, really. Anything to avoid having memories of him snuggling a baby.

  He’d be an amazing father. Patient and doting and kind. Someday.

  To someone else’s children.

  Which was none of her concern, since she wasn’t marrying the man—even if the throaty burr in his voice did turn her knees to butter.

  “Lady Agatha, you’ve somethin’ in the post today. Do ye have a beau writin’ tae ye?” Connor entered the room, tapping an envelope against his palm.

  “I do hope everything is fine at home.” Agatha broke the seal. “Oh my. Stemson writes that the workmen are in their final stages of cleanup. The Berkeley Square town house will be ready for our return by the end of the week. Excellent news.” Agatha practically glowed with happiness.

  A move would mean they’d no longer be neighbors to Lord Carlyle and, by extension, Ethan. No more private shows at the windows or impromptu visits. Not that Aunt Agatha’s townhome was a great distance away, but there was a kind of intimacy that came with being direct neighbors.

  They’d originally come to Woodrest to escape Montague’s slanderous tales. She’d chosen to avoid the gossip pages from the London papers while here. If talk had died down in their absence, then great. But she’d not let avoiding her notoriety in society be the reason Aunt Agatha delayed returning to her home.

  Lottie addressed Connor. “That answers your question from the other day. We will return to London as soon as possible. No more female distractions for his lordship.” She let the sarcasm speak for itself. Gathering the forgotten book from her lap, she rose, shaking out her skirt, and turned to Agatha. “I’ll tell Darling to begin packing.”

  “Yes, dear girl. We have much to do. When Lord Amesbury returns, we must inform him of our departure. We leave tomorrow,” Agatha said.

  “Of course, Auntie.” Lottie left the room as her aunt requested a pen and paper fr
om a footman. There were lists to make. Focusing on that might distract her from the thought that leaving Woodrest meant leaving the freedom she’d shared with Ethan while here.

  * * *

  Connor met him at the door. “Yer lass an’ the old lady are goin’ home.”

  “What happened? Are they all right?” Ethan’s heart dropped. Delivering the blankets and visiting the Thatchers had taken most of the day. He’d missed the evening meal, and now his houseguests were leaving him.

  “Aye, they’re right as rain. Just a bit worked up after gettin’ word from Lon’on. Lady Agatha’s home is ready. No’ sure what that means, exactly, but they’re packing.”

  “Lady Agatha’s home has been under construction, leaving her tae rent the house next door tae Cal. I suppose they’ll move back tae Berkeley Square, then.” No more Lottie next door. No more window views. But he’d be damned if she’d back out of their morning rides. Seeing her grumpy morning face at the beginning of each day was something he looked forward to.

  Connor took Ethan’s overcoat and plucked the hat from his head. “She’s in the library right now.”

  Ethan squeezed Connor’s shoulder in thanks and hurried down the hall.

  Tonight’s gown glowed like an ember in the firelight, with the flickering flames casting her olive skin and inky hair in stark relief. Sitting in his chair reading, she seemed right at home. This time had essentially been a break from reality. A tease of what life could be if only things were different. “I hear you’ll be leaving me soon, lass.”

  Lottie looked up from the book with a start. “I didn’t hear you enter. We missed you at dinner.” She closed the book, then crossed to where he stood. “How are the Thatchers?”